Men and Monkeys
by E. Lynn Morgan
Summary: Hanuman the Hindu monkey god has a mission, and he recruits Monkey Fist and a clueless disc jockey to do his bidding. It's a monkey thing.
1. Hanuman

Disclaimer: Monkey Fist, Kim Possible and all related characters are the property of the Walt Disney Corporation. I do not own them, and I am a bad girl for using them in a story. Please don't sue me, I am a poor college student and all you'll get is a stack of old textbooks. A greater sin is my twisting the Ramayana for my own nefarious purposes. Hanuman, Rama, Sita, Ravenna and Laksmana belong to the Hindu people. I really mean no disrespect. Forgive me, Vishnu! Those interested in the real Ramayana should try the translation by William Buck, which makes the epic accessible to Western readers while not sacrificing its poetry. It's one heck of a great story. Finally, I'd like to issue a "Mary Sue" alert for those readers who can't stand original characters. There are a bunch here, and hopefully none of them hit Mary Sue or Gary Stu status, though she does seem to pop up at the worst time.  
  
Hanuman speaks:  
  
The story of my land is the story of waves of invaders and conquerors. It is the story of humanity, since the first of the naked apes climbed down from the trees and left the forest. First to my land, my India, were the simple people who came out of the primordial forests; they built shelter, tilled the soil, and came to know us, in their own way. Then from the north rode wild horsemen, who brought their own wild thunder- gods with them. They slaughtered the simple people and took their lands. They spilt lamb blood to the thunder head. And, as with all conquerors, the land they conquered conquered them. Little by little they forgot the cold and lonely steppes they once called home, the noisy and angry war gods they once worshipped. And they came to know us, the gods of the land, and came to tell our stories as their stories. Stories of amorous Krishna and voluptuous Parvati, of generous Ganesh and fearsome Kali. And my favorite, the tale of my good friend Rama, and his lady, Sita.  
  
India 357 B.C.  
  
The fortress of the demon lord Ravenna hovered one hundred feet off the ground. From Rama and Hanuman's viewpoint, it was a small speck in the sky, twinkling like a star, lit up by a thousand torches. The demons were preparing for a great celebration, the victory of their king.  
"He has her," Rama said softly. "He has my beloved Sita."  
Hanuman was taken aback by the depth of the despair in Rama's voice.  
"Fear not, lord Rama," Hanuman said. "We shall get your lady back."  
Rama tore his gaze away from the spot in the sky that held his wife, and looked into the wry, intelligent eyes of the his diminutive companion. Ever since his wife Sita had been carried off by a nine-headed demon he had learned to suspend his disbelief. So when, during his desperate search for Sita, a small white monkey climbed down from the trees, bowed to Rama, and offered the prince his services, Rama had accepted the primate's offer with little thought to the bizarreness of the situation. Such was his state of mind at being separated from his love.  
During his quest, he had had plenty of time to think about it. Rama, his half-brother Laksmana and Hanuman the monkey had crossed burning deserts, hacked through deep jungles, climbed over mountains and through caves, battling man and demon in pursuit of Ravenna and Sita. During this journey Hanuman performed supernatural feats of strength and agility, and displayed an almost magical skill with medicine and healing. Clearly, Hanuman was no ordinary monkey.  
"What are you?" Rama asked the monkey, his voice a half-awed, half- frightened whisper.  
Hanuman grinned, his simian face quirked up in a sardonic smile that suggested an understanding of events beyond human ken. "I am your best friend, Lord Rama." 


	2. Monkey Fist

Great Britain Present day  
  
Lord Montague Fiske, who preferred to be referred to as Monkey Fist, crouched over the antique desk in his study. The desktop was the only neat spot in the room. Books and papers were strewn about on the floor, maps tacked up haphazardly on the walls. A tray of cold tea and soup, his untouched lunch, balanced precariously on a stack of books near his seat.  
He was absorbed in a very old, very fragile manuscript from India. This manuscript held the key to the whereabouts of a supposedly very powerful artifact, referred to, in the old journals and religious texts he'd pored over, as "Hanuman's Blessing." He'd gone through some trouble pilfering the manuscript from that university library in New Delhi. He had to be smart about it; he didn't want to leave any clues as to his identity. He couldn't have that annoying brat Kim Possible coming after him. Not when he was so close.  
So he had taken two months to plan the theft, learning the routines of the guards, the ins and outs of the security system. As it was he needn't have had to be so careful. That night he was blessed with almost preternatural good luck: the guard on duty was passed out in a drunken stupor, someone had forgotten to activate the library's alarm system, and the case holding the manuscript was not locked. He feared a set-up, but the lure of immanent power was so great he couldn't resist snatching the manuscript. He'd laid low in New Delhi for three days, half expecting Interpol or Kim Possible to come crashing into his hotel room at any moment. But no one seemed to care about some dusty old manuscript gone missing from the university library; the only mention of the theft was in the local paper, and that was relegated to a small paragraph on page nine. So he'd packed up and headed back to his family estate in Great Britain, with no one being the wiser, to get to the business of translating the manuscript.  
Still, he couldn't shake the strange feeling that someone had wanted him to have the manuscript.  
But then again, it was his destiny, after all.  
Translating the manuscript turned out to be something of a problem, as he was out of practice with his Sanskrit, and the manuscript was written in an archaic tongue that made it all the more difficult. This galled him. He'd once been able to speak and read seven languages, including Sanskrit, quite fluently, but he'd gotten out of practice. World domination took up a lot of his time and energy. But still, this - deficiency - in his knowledge base seemed a sign of laziness, sloppiness. He could hear his late mother's stern, cold voice in the back of his head, berating him. She had taught him the importance of discipline and self-sufficiency. So he had taken over the slow, painstaking process of deciphering the manuscript himself, instead of hiring or kidnapping an expert to do it.  
It was a chronicle written in the 5th century by an historian named Manoranjan. Manoranjan was the boon companion of Prince Rakesh, the founder of an obscure and long-lost cult dedicated to - and this is the bit that first piqued Monkey Fist's interest - Hanuman, the Indian monkey trickster-god. Most interesting was the fact that Rakesh claimed to be a direct descendent of Prince Rama, the hero of the epic Ramayana, which detailed Prince Rama's struggle with the demon King Ravennna over Rama's wife, Sita. Manoranjan claimed to pick up where the Ramayana left off.  
According the manuscript, after Rama had defeated Ravenna, he settled down to rule with Sita, with his half-brother Laksmana and Hanuman serving as advisors. For ten years, his country was blessed with remarkable peace and prosperity. But then, as with all blessings, human weakness threw a wrench into the cogs. As Rama grew older, he grew increasingly jealous and possessive of his wife, Sita, how seemed to become more beautiful with each passing year. Finally, he accused his Sita of having an affair with Laksmana, and sentenced them both to death by fire. Hanuman, apparently, could not stand this injustice. On the day the execution was to take place, just as the fire lapped at Sita and Laksmana's feat, Hanuman leaped into the pyre, and revealing his god form, took them both in his arms and bounded off into the forest. Neither Sita, Laksmana, nor Hanuman were seen again after that. At least not in the flesh.  
After this, Rama fell into disfavor and the last years of his reign were filled with rebellion and civil war, cumulating with his eventual overthrow by a brutal warlord. The warlord ordered what was left of the royal family slaughtered, but Rama's infant grandson, Rakesh, was smuggled out of the palace by a loyal servant who raised him as her own.  
On his twenty-first birthday, Rakesh had a vision, in which a half- man, half-monkey calling himself Hanuman revealed to him his parentage and laid upon him a quest to reclaim the family thrown. To aid him, Hanuman gave Rakesh an amulet of great power, called "Hanuman's Blessing" by Manoranjan. And, of course, Rakesh triumphed over his enemies and reclaimed his thrown. In thanks for victory, Rakesh instigated the worship of Hanuman in his realm. And this is where Manoranjan got a little fuzzy; according to him, Hanuman's Blessing could only properly be wielded by someone who was "pure of heart," and Rakesh apparently felt his purity slipping because he turned the amulet over to a group of holy men for safe keeping. This group hid the amulet in the depths of the south Indian jungle. Years passed, the holy men all died off, and Hanuman's Blessing was eventually forgotten. Except for Manoranjan, who, like a good bureaucrat, kept very detailed records of every little thing that transpired at Rakesh's court, including the exact location of the hidden amulet.  
Monkey Fist's eyes flashed as he read over this last bit. The directions were most explicit. He bounded over the desk, snatched the map of India off the wall, and slapped it down next to the manuscript. Taking up a pen, he traced the route as described by Manoranjan on the map, ending up at a point in the interior of the southern peninsula. There. That's where the amulet would be.  
Ultimate power would be his.  
He started to chuckle, which eventually built into a hysterical, monkey-like shriek. His ever faithful valet Bates, who was carrying his master's dinner tray up to him, couldn't help but shudder at the sound. 


	3. Flying the Friendly Skies

Flying the Friendly Skies Present Day  
  
"There's something off about this whole thing, y'know?" Claire Harper asked Mira. "I mean, Judas ain't all there himself, and all of sudden, it's 'Pack your bags, we're off to India' with no explanation whatsoever. Something weird is going on."  
Mira shrugged and mumbled something monosyllabic as usual. The girl was gorgeous, with golden blonde hair, baby blue eyes, perfect porcelain skin, and the kind of bone structure fashion designers were always going on about, but she was.strange. She never talked to anyone, just sat there looking beautiful, like a doll. But then, Mira was a telepath, and heard other people's thoughts inside her head, so Claire thought she had a license to be a little fruity.  
Mira wasn't going to be much of a conversationalist, so Claire turned to her left and tried to strike up a conversation with Hu Lanrui. The three of them were wedged together in coach, and it was just her luck that she got stuck between the two weirdos. She would rather have sat next to Giovanni the stud muffin, but he had sat down next to Judas and Lan insisted on a window seat.  
"Did he say anything to you about why we're going to India? You're the teacher's pet," she asked. Lan gave her an annoyed, profounder-than- thou look and turned to gaze out the window without replying. Lan was a telekinetic, like she was, but he was far better. His favorite trick was levitating himself during meditation. It freaked people out. Claire got the feeling that he liked to freak people out.  
Claire fidgeted in her seat. She was bored. Between the ice king on the left and the living doll on her right there was no one to talk to. She sat up on her knees and turned around, peering over the back of her seat. Maybe she could shoot the breeze with Giovanni.  
His curly black hair pushed off his forehead by his Walkman's headphones, Giovanni Toscano was lost to the world, nodding his head in time to a drumbeat so loud that Claire could hear it from her seat. She sighed and let her eyes linger on him for a moment. The Italian was absolutely beautiful and Claire was head-over-heels for him. Giovanni, however, treated her like all the hot guys she had ever known treated her: like a kid sister, someone to joke around with but not a potential love interest. Plain girls like her just didn't land hotties like Giovanni.  
A high, soft twitter distracted her. She glanced over at Judas, their "headmaster." The odd little man was mumbling and giggling to himself. He, too, seemed unaware of his surroundings, staring down at his hands, his fingers twitching like brown snakes in his lap. He was shaking, but Claire got the impression that he was vibrating with badly suppressed energy, not with the palsy that sometimes comes with old age. Not that he wasn't ancient. He had to be in his seventies, at least. Claire leaned closer to try to catch what he was saying.  
"All the pieces are in place, all in place, I couldn't bring them all into the fold but they are coming, nonetheless -tee-hee - the game is begun - ha - the game is begun and it is time we all choose our play pieces."  
Claire shuddered and slid back down into her seat. Not for the first time, she wondered what she had gotten herself into. She should have thrown that blasted letter in the trash. She might still be filling in the midnight shift at WBOP, spinning old doo-wop records for basically empty air space, but then she wouldn't be surrounded by weirdos and gibbering, senile old dudes.  
A year and a half ago her life had been relatively normal. Working at the local Peoria oldies station, she covered the eleven-to-seven shift. Tiring, but you had to start somewhere. Then she received the letter, the one from the Detroit Institute of Psychic Study (she only figured out much later that the acronym was "DIPS"). The Detroit Institute because she had displayed some "latent telekinetic talent," which had manifested during her adolescence.  
Claire remembered the second "incident," though she had been way too young to remember the first "incident." There was a period of time, right after she turned thirteen and puberty hit with its usual ton of bricks and hormones, when things in the Harper house had a tendency to move on their own. Dishes flew off the shelf when no one was near them, cans of soda opened and poured their contents on the floor while the family watched from across the hall. This strange phenomena only occurred when Claire was in the house, and sometimes had a tendency to follow her to school or to friends' houses. At that time, a guy with wire-rim glasses had come to visit her, and set up video cameras and infrared equipment. It was from the parapsychologist that she learned of the earlier "incident," when she was two and toy cars zoomed around the floor by themselves. It was something the Harpers assiduously ignored and avoided, and eventually, it went away.  
But the guy from the Detroit Institute didn't think it had gone away, not really, and he explained, in his letter, that he had helped others like Claire and would now like to help her learn to control her special talent. Claire wasn't too keen on doing the whole "X-Men" thing, but the offer included free room and board and Detroit was the locale of Motown studios, aka "The Original Hitsville, USA." In the very least, she could politely sit through a few lectures and spend the rest of her time making connections in the music industry. WBOP was okay, but you just didn't accrue much of a following working the graveyard shift when most of your fifty-plus listeners were in bed by ten. Without some kind of following, you couldn't make a name for yourself as a DJ, and without name recognition you didn't command that high of a salary.  
So she'd gone to Detroit, and wasn't quite what she had expected, and it wasn't just that Judas was no Professor X. There were only four of them, Mira the mind-reader, Lan the telekinetic, the hunky Giovanni, who could start fires just by thinking about them, and herself. And Judas had helped her, in that she could now move small objects around the room by will. But she didn't see how that would do her much good, outside of a circus-sideshow setting. Spoon-bending just wasn't much of a marketable job skill in the real world, though her classmates all seemed to take the spooky mind-power thing very seriously.  
And then Judas, who, yes, was a little spooky himself but always seemed relatively stable, had rounded them all up on short notice to go India, of all places. And Judas was now talking to himself like a stereotypical madman. And no one seemed to find any of this just the slightest bit out of the ordinary but her.  
This was going to be a very long plane ride, indeed. 


End file.
